"For what?"
"Nothing, only I am going back to London to-night. I cannot remain your guest, knowing what I know."
Ricordo half lifted his fez, and bowed mockingly.
"I am honoured by your society, even for a few hours, Signor Winfield," he said. "It has been pleasant to talk about—old times, eh? I will tell the estimable Mrs. Briggs at the farm, who wisely rules her husband, to send back your luggage to the station. A busy editor—called suddenly back, eh? Good-day, Signor Winfield."
The other stood undecided.
"I say, Leicester, old man, will nothing move you?"
"Nothing, my friend, nothing. I have only one thing to live for now, and that I am going to have. It is a pleasant walk to the station, signore. I hope you will enjoy it."
Winfield turned away with a heavy heart. Twice he stopped as if undecided what to do, then, as if making a final resolution, he walked rapidly towards the station. As for the other, he stood and watched him until he was out of sight; but his face retained its relentless look, in his eyes was the wild stare of a madman.
"Even if I loved her as much as I hate her, I would still do what I set out to do," he said as Winfield passed out of sight.
That evening a servant at Vale Linden house announced that Signor Ricordo had called to see Miss Castlemaine.